“I would say, ‘Come home,’” cried Christina. “Over and over I would say, ‘Come home. If it is only for a week or a day between voyages,’ I would say, ‘come still, no matter what happened before you went away.’”
Beatrice felt in the pocket of her riding skirt. There were a note-book and pencil there, she felt sure, for she had made a list of supplies to be bought in the village before she set out on her ride.
“Do you want me to put down the address and write to your son for you?” she offered.
“Oh, if you would!” cried Christina. “And you would never tell Thorvik?”
“There is no danger of that,” Beatrice assured her. “And I think somehow that your boy will come back.”
She could not tell, herself, what made her offer such a definite opinion.
There was something she liked about the words of the letter. “I went ashore at Marseilles, and it is such a strange place that before I had been there an hour I wanted to stay a year. But loafing doesn’t suit me, so I am off again for Hong-Kong, but I’ll not forget you, Mother, not even on the other side of the world.”
She folded the worn page once again, gave it to Christina, and rode on. To her own surprise, she had that pleasant, satisfied feeling, that comes with the making of a new friend. After a few rods, she turned to look back and saw the Finnish woman still looking after her. Beatrice raised her hand in a quick gesture of leave-taking. It was a slight move but it had important consequences, since it seemed to cement their regard for each other and to strengthen Christina in a wavering resolution. She came swiftly down the road, calling in her clear, full voice:
“Stop, I must tell you something.”
When she came to Buck’s side she began with quick questioning that would have sounded impertinent, had it not been so earnest.